


heavy

by griefiary



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bar fights to cope, Drinking & Talking, Gen, Good Bro Tim Drake, Good Sibling Dick Grayson, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Nonbinary Character, Scarecrow's Fear Toxin (DCU)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28597029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/griefiary/pseuds/griefiary
Summary: It's been weeks since Red Hood has been sighted on Gotham's rooftops.Dick & Tim take it upon themselves to find him, and well -- seek and ye shall find, as the saying goes.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 5
Kudos: 84





	heavy

**Author's Note:**

> Jason doesn't drink, DC can fight me on that. 
> 
> Also, Dick uses he/they pronouns.

The strain of muscle shifting against the force of bone, near effortlessly gliding through the air, again and again. A mass locks itself around his throat, squeezing tightly, an arm slung into place as another holds it and pulls. The air drains from his lungs as he knocks backwards, his back layered over another man’s chest, the stench of beer and copper wafting off him. He raises his head, slamming back down until he hears the unforgiving crunch of bone against his skull. The hold loosens for a fracture of a second, stumbling back, and Jason bears his elbow into the man’s ribs with full force. He hears him collapse behind him, the thump of knees hitting the hardwood echoing through the bar. 

Around him, six men all groan in unison. Jason sighs, shrugs his shoulders to hitch his leather jacket back up. Slowly, he reaches up to wipe some sweat off his lips, sneering down at his fingers as he stares down at blood coating his fingers. The heavy tang of iron rests on his tongue, the sudden throb in his lip screaming split. He exhales slowly, a tremor of satisfaction slipping down his spine, a soft chuckle falling from his lips.

“Well, boys, that was f--”

Something like a brick wall slams into his side, his knees buckling under his weight, carrying him right into the pool table. He heaves, trying to lift himself from the collapsed table, only slumping when his shoulder groans in protest. He shuts his eyes, taps what remains of the table twice -- he isn’t getting up -- roars erupting in the bar. Somewhere, he thinks he hears the barkeep offer a drink of choice to that last tank, on the house of course. 

Jason is perfectly content where he is, the light burning behind his closed eyelids. He just needs a moment before he slips out, gets on his bike, checks out of his motel and heads for the next town. Only, someone clears their throat and nudges his leg. Jason pointedly ignores them, stubbornly keeping his eyes shut. He has half a heart to tell them to get lost, before they’re speaking. 

“We know you’re awake, Jason.”

His eyes snap open, blinking at the glare of the bulb, refocusing to be met with two pairs of blues -- one deep and as dark as the ocean, the other, bright and as vibrant as the sky. He groans again at the sight of his brothers in the same motion that he runs a hand over sweat-slick skin. “Get lost,” He finally says.

“That was brutal,” Dick says in earnest, arms folded over each other on their chest. Then, his expression softens into Jason doesn’t-quite-know-what, but he matches it with a carefully placed scowl. If he’s going to judge, he doesn’t want to hear it. 

His gaze shifts to Tim, waiting. He lifts one thin eyebrow, holding out an arm to Jason, which he begrudgingly takes when he pulls himself from the beyond-saving pool table.

“Been a while, let’s talk.” He’s motioning to the bar, carefully laying one hand on the uninjured shoulder. With Dick and Tim at either side, something tells him that he doesn’t have much choice. 

Once they’re seated, the barkeep turns to them, swinging a towel over her shoulder. She grimaces at the sight of Jason, muttering something about an ugly mug. He doesn’t bother. Tim smiles with warmth he doesn’t usually offer unless he’s playing Timmy Wayne; something twisting in Jason’s stomach when he watches how effortlessly relaxed he seems, the upturn of his lip and the way his shoulders stay loose and steady.

“What’ll it be?” She asks, her attention slipping between Tim and Dick.

“I’ll have a craft, one long island for him --” He thumbs at Dick, sitting at Jason’s right, before motioning towards him, “One club soda for this sore loser, ice on the side.” 

The brunette winks, disappearing again, leaving the three of them to sit in silence. The patrons of the bar don’t seem to care, ignoring the men still laying on the floor. Many of them go back to their own tables, laughter sounding through the space. Despite the liveliness around them, Jason can feel the tension coiling around them as they sit in silence. Dick is watching him like a hawk, no doubt already working out that Jason must be wondering what his brothers must be doing so far away from Gotham, from Blüdhaven. 

The barkeep returns, damn near slamming their drinks onto the wood and sliding them over. An ice pack accompanies Jason’s club soda. She opens her mouth, Dick waves her off with one of those award-winning Grayson smiles, with a hand gesture that might say something like ‘sorry, we have to sort our brother out and kind of interrogate him right now’. Whatever it is, she gets the hint. Neither of them are interested. Jason presses the ice pack to his shoulder, sighing in relief, taking one long sip. Similarly, Tim and Dick take sips from their beverages. 

The awkwardness stretches on, Jason wonders which one of them will be the first to crack. And already, he has his answer. 

“So,” Dick starts, “We haven’t seen you in a few weeks. Seven, actually.”

Jason tries to shrug, wincing at the sharp pull. Right. But it’s not like he hasn’t been under the radar for weeks, or even months, before. 

“Weird that we’d get a ping of you being in the middle of bumfucksville, nowhere, though,” Tim says easily, cutting to the chase. Jason looks at the establishment around him, brows furrowing. He doesn’t actually know where he is, he realizes slowly enough. At some point the roads had just melded together, one dive blurring after another. On one level, they all look the same, anyway.

“How’d you find me?” He asks, dryly, taking another sip from his soda. He stabs at the lemon with his straw a few times, frowning. 

“Video of your last fight went viral--”

“--Your face was too blurry for cops or twitter to identify, but O’s tech matched your gait and facial structure.”

Jason hums idly, still stabbing at the lemon slice. He isn’t looking at Tim or at Dick, leaning lower to take another sip. Yeah, alright, that checked out. He doesn’t need to ask again, before his older sibling is already speaking again, “Listen, Ja--”

He drains the glass, pushing it away from him, and rises to his feet. He places the ice pack back onto the bar, clapping his hands over his siblings’ shoulders, “Good talk, we should do that again sometime, right now I have places to be.” 

Before either of them can answer, he turns on his heel, making a beeline for the exit. This is not a conversation he wants to be having, and, quite frankly, not one he wants to be having with either of them. He pushes the door open, inhaling an icy lungful. The air is so much clearer out here. Fuck, he can breathe out here. 

(It’s not Gotham, not surrounded by spires of concrete with smog so thick you nearly suffocate this time of year.)

The gravel crunches under his boot as he moves towards his bike, moonlight shining onto his cheek and the sing-song of crickets sweeping across the fields, around the oasis of light that the bar is, in this desert of civilization. Jason stops in front of his bike, turning to his side to see Dick’s and Tim’s parked right next to his. 

Of course. And --

“Jason, wait!” Speak of the devils. He ignores them, pretends it’s a quiet night and the only company he’s keeping are the lightning bugs in the fields and the sure bruises that’ll bloom by night’s end. He swoops one leg over his bike, takes the helmet into his hands, and already, Dick has reached him. Tim is hot on their heel, no doubt having been left to handle the bill. He’d almost feel guilty, but then again, he wasn’t the one intruding on an anotherwise decent evening.

Jason sighs, eyes them both once they reach him. 

“I’ll be back,” He explains, not bothering to hide the twinge of exasperation now coloring his tone. Then, smoothly, “Don’t be so thrilled, it’s not an early retirement or anything.” 

He meets Dick’s eyes, thinking better of breaking the gaze now, almost daring the other to blink first. Tim is already speaking, “Look, we all get hit with fear toxin at least once in our careers, no one is blaming you for that--”

His head snaps in his direction, a strain in his voice, “No one?” 

The three of them go quiet, it’s not the sound of metal hitting flesh and crunching bone, the twist shrill of high screams filling the quiet, but the soft chortling of a woman, the sound of a lighter igniting the end of a cigarette that are, though he knows neither of the other two hear it. 

“We get if you have some things you need to work out,” Dick says softer, climbing on their own bike. They motion for Tim to get to his own, pulls the helmet over their curls. Reluctantly, the younger boy follows suit, all the while keeping his eye on Jason. Dick’s still going though, his face now obscured by the helmet. “Just get yourself looked at. Tonight.” 

Dick motions towards his shoulder, “You already know.” 

He sighs, turns head towards Tim, looks back at Jason and nods curtly. He revs his engine, the machine thrumming to life with an impressive purr (Dick’s always had the better eye for bikes between them), pulling out of the gravel parkway, slipping down the dirt road. He and Tim watch the tail light of the bike be swallowed by the surrounding darkness, destination Blüdhaven. 

“You’re still here,” Jason says flatly, when Tim doesn’t put his helmet on.

“Observational,” Tim muses, sarcasm dripping from every syllable, before continuing when Jason doesn’t answer. His younger brother buries his hands into his pockets, shivering at the chill in the air, “I get it. I do. And Dick I think does too. You get hit with fear toxin, and everyone expects you to see one thing, you see something else.” 

Jason swallows, perhaps a little too loudly, because Tim is shifting on his bike. 

“We all cope,” His head turns towards the dive, “You do what you have to do to make it to tomorrow.” 

He finds himself nodding, “I guess so.”

“Jason?” 

He glances back at him, now wearing his helmet, a near silent thrumming and the headlights are the only signs that the sleek, modern bike Tim’s sat on is alive. “One more thing. You aren’t Batman, you have friends.” 

With one final nod from Jason, Tim pauses, waits for a moment, just to see if he has anything to say, and when nothing comes he zips into the night, the same direction that Dick had gone. Jason watches, an itch slowly building under his skin, he rolls his shoulders, hissing with the stretch. The bar doors open, drunk patrons stumbling out one by one. Dick & Tim had just come in for last call. Finally, he pulls his own helmet over his curls, his own engine roaring with ease.

His jacket whips in the wind as he dashes farther and farther from the oasis, down the opposite direction his brothers had chosen to return home to. 

He drives and drives the ache in his shoulder slowly dulling, the emptiness around him clearing his mind, the only sound the symphony of engine and environment. Gravel melds into dirt melds into pavement, and soon, before Jason really knows it, he’s stopping in front of a fork. 

He blinks once, twice, swears under his breath, and turns the bike.

Jason whips around, speeding towards the direction of the bar, and eventually, past it.

Destination Gotham City.

**Author's Note:**

> u can cyberstalk me on tumblr with the same url!


End file.
